


Spine

by RedOrchid



Series: Picture of A Man [3]
Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Community: picture of a man, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2008-12-16
Updated: 2008-12-16
Packaged: 2017-12-10 20:01:20
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 600
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/789605
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/RedOrchid/pseuds/RedOrchid
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>They don’t kiss. They never do.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Spine

The little ridges of sharp bone stand up in harsh relief in the pale light of the waning moon through a small window. They press against the flesh, denting it, disrupting the smoothness of skin with their curving, probing forms. Long scars and short, old, whitened ones and new crisscross their way in between the bumps, painting a pattern of hardship and grief on the ashen, blue-lit canvas.

He moves a hand roughly along the long, graceful bend, letting his fingers splay on the upstroke and press down heavily once they return to the small of the back. His joints stiffen, and blunt nails cut into narrow hips, causing his partner to hiss and arch his back, the ridges of the spine turning inward, melting together to form the smooth shape of a perfect ‘C.’ It curls away from him to bring them closer, a sandy-haired head tossed back against his shoulder, breaths hot and uneven as they brush across his cheek.

“Harder.”

They don’t kiss. They never do. Such an act would be dishonest, and despite what people might think of him, he’s always tried to be an honest man where he can.

He pushes the other’s head forward, stifling a groan against an emaciated shoulder by letting his teeth find purchase in the yielding flesh. The curve of the back is something alive. _This_ is something alive—a break in the monotony of dark rooms and darker lords, people he’s known for most of his life dying like snuffed-out candles all around him. A single breath and then nothing. It’s all so clean. So detached. And even though he has been a master of detachment for many, many years, the simplicity of it all—the seeming randomness of the faltering flames—brings out a cold premonition in him. So he accepts this, _takes_ this, pushing himself deep inside where there’s no denying that he is more to the world than a flickering ghost, aimlessly wandering the earth in pursuit of Elysium. His nails find soft flesh again, and he feels the back curve, thrashing and twisting under his hands. Alive. Even in the little moments of death he falls into with the other man, when a hot stiffness grabs his spine and propels his hips forward, he can feel his heart beat in his chest, an unsteady, racing reminder under bruised and fractured ribs.

A shuddering breath, and he feels it happen, feels his partner fall into blackness, muscles trembling and clenching in a breathless cycle of tense-release around and against him. He feels himself being pulled forward, waves of heat crashing against his mind as pleasure travels up his backbone, down his legs, melting the icy numbness he can feel almost constantly inside of him now. One hand grips the sharp hip pressed against his own convulsively, tightening steadily as he tethers on the edge, adding to the collection of blue and purple left there from Artemis’s hunt the previous night. The other travels along the spine, caressing almost softly now, spreading little beads of perspiration with the tips of his fingers as he joins in the fall, bodies melting together in jerking aftershocks of callused hypersensitivity.

He lets out a shuddering breath, forehead resting heavily against the fairer man’s shoulder, and prepares for what he knows comes next—the part where he pulls away, gathers his robes and leaves without a word, keeping his face carefully blank until the next time they end up like this, one of them tilting his head surreptitiously to issue the silent demand/invitation across the space of a crowded room.


End file.
